Coincidental
by Cheshire
Summary: With Sam at college and John insisting on solo hunts, Dean gives in to distractions. Slash. AlastairXDean. Pre-series. Dark.


Coincidence

Written for lj's spn_teamfic

Set pre-series, but obvious spoiler for season four

**Warnings**: BDSM, darkfic

Dean liked them tall and he liked them built, and he never, ever thought about the reasons behind it (or that's what he told himself, when he was finally alone, driving the Impala for hours and hours of bland, open road). He liked them tough and he liked them with a mean streak, with the ability to give orders without ever sounding like they're tacking on "for your own good" at the end.

He'd taken to going to more upscale bars, to places dimly lit for ambiance as opposed to not giving a fuck, and it hadn't taken him long to get into a groove. He now knows exactly what he's looking for: high powered types who probably married their too-vanilla trophy wives right out of business school and have to turn to their housekeepers just to get head at home. It makes him laugh, sometimes, thinking about how guys who probably control the lives of thousands of people feel like they need to tie up a twenty-three year old drifter just to get off.

This guy had an edge to him that caught Dean's eye, a certain fierce knowledge that got Dean semi-hard just from being looked at. The guy felt dangerous and that was something that set off all the wrong bells and whistles, but Dean had done all the little tests he could think of and the guy didn't seem to be anything supernatural. Not that Dean would probably care at this point--two weeks since hearing anything from Dad except vague text messages had him on edge. And pissed off. Mostly pissed off.

There was a hard slap to his face. "If we're doing this, boyo, I'm the _only_ thing you're going to be focused on." The man had a lisp that was creepy and hot at the same time. Dean approved, if only because it made him feel like he was about to be fucked by some supervillain.

He smirked at him, knowing how much the expression tended to piss people off, but the guy just laughed in his face. And then they were kissing, all teeth and blood, tongues delving into each other like they could burn through flesh. The guy's hands roved over his body, spread him wide and rubbed inside of him with the bare minimum of lube. He fucked into Dean for a short eternity before filling him up and pulling out, not bothering to get Dean off.

The casual disregard almost made Dean blow his load right there, without a single touch.

A flash of something made Dean focus on the sudden display of pristine knives, a razor flashing in the guy's hand, stroking gently over Dean's chest. He watched the skin split, the blood well up, before he ever felt the pain. It burned through him, spreading to the pit of his stomach, welling up in the corners of his eyes. All the while the guy talked, sadistic hissed out nothings, words Dean barely understood and knew there was something important inherent in that.

By the time they were done, sunlight was flowing harshly through the expanse of the room, shining the little pieces of Dean's skin that were still exposed a dark gold. He was dripping more bodily fluids than he could name, strung up in chains that were more hardcore than he'd ever seen outside of old school, abandoned prisons, and too exhausted to do anything but hang from his wrists. Best. Sex. Ever.

When he was released he had enough strength to lean into the guy, lick some blood away from his lips, then give him a chaste kiss and a rasped, "Thanks."

He headed to the bathroom and left the guy to grab his toys and leave. Dean didn't look at himself in the mirror, just cleaned himself off and out as thoroughly as possible. He was too blessed out for the reprimand of "One Missed Call" staring at him from his cell phone to even register.

It wasn't until the next day he realized the guy had left a business card, stuck at the corner to the sheets with a dried patch of blood. The paper was thick and soft, the sort that screamed money, and the back was scribbled on in a twisted hand--a private number. Dean stared at the name for a bit, wondering what sort of fucked up parents named their kid Alastair, then plugged the number into his contact list. Not because he ever planned on using it, but just...just because.

Dean called Dad and left a message about a new hunt. He ignored the fact that it would take him right outside the city listed on the guy's card. Coincidences happened.


End file.
